


glitter on the floor (go hardcore)

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Kink Subtext, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Slash, Sparring, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for no_tags 2015, prompt #8: "Gabe/anyone or Gabe gen - Welcome to the jungle." Pete stumbles into Gabe's domain--that is, the gym he runs, called the Cobra--and they get to know each other via punching, which turns out to be surprisingly illuminating. Also, Gabe is wearing hot pink booty shorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	glitter on the floor (go hardcore)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Kesha's "Take It Off." Rated T for mild consensual violence (does that even merit a T rating?)
> 
> Dear prompter: I took your prompt and drove it like I stole it. I sure hope you like dudes fighting! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am pretty sure this is not how gyms work. I'm pretty sure no one does anything like impromptu fight club. Forgive me; the last time I did anything athletic was years ago.

Gabe puts his hands on his hips and surveys his domain. The cinderblock walls shake with the sound of Kesha, the heavy breathing of his customers, the whirring of treadmills, and the thump of gloved fists against the bag. Today, the gym—the Cobra, his baby—is filled with good vibes. He can feel it. Everyone’s focused in, deep in the flow of movement and effort.

Gabe puts in a lot of late nights for this place, gets uptight about expenses and revenue. At the moment, all the anal-retentive anxiety crap seems worthwhile. Also, he’s wearing Victoria’s Secret shorts with PINK screenprinted across the ass, which certainly makes the Cobra beat the hell out of any other place he’s ever worked.

The door to the women’s locker room bangs open, and Lindsey emerges, grinning and freshly showered. She shoulders her bag and waves to Gabe. He waves back; Lindsey is one of his regulars and he likes her a lot. She always pays her membership fees on time and puts her entire heart and soul into sparring. (Also, she got her boyfriend to paint a neon Cobra superhero on the front of the building, all rippling muscles and crotch bulge. Gabe smirks in delight every time he sees it. It’s nice to be so upfront about what he’s about, what the Cobra’s about. This place is queer-friendly and that’s that.)

Lindsey’s cutoffs reveal a series of fresh, reddening proto-bruises on her thighs. Gabe looks away before he can stare for too long. It’d be rude of him to ogle, especially since he knows her type, which is definitely very unlike Gabe Saporta.

As Lindsey strolls out the front door, a guy comes in. He’s a newcomer. Gabe’s never seen him before, and he’s got that look people get when they’ve only been introduced to the Cobra through reputation. Gabe considers it the “nervous virgin” look: wide eyes, an edgy grin.

He sizes the guy up. He’s in his thirties, probably, and short, but compact. Probably pretty strong for his height; if he’s lucky, he’s fast too. Light brown skin, bleach-blonde hair. Generous mouth. _(God, Saporta, you need to get laid.)_

Gabe heads in his direction. Time to play host. “Hey there,” he says, grinning. “Welcome to the jungle. Is this your first time visiting the Cobra?” He asks for form’s sake; he already knows.

“Yeah.” The new guy’s answering smile reveals outsize front teeth, which is weirdly charming. He sticks out a hand, leather jacket creaking. “I’m Pete.”

Gabe takes it and shakes it. Pete grips tight, though his palm is damp. “Gabe Saporta. The Cobra’s my baby.”

Pete looks him up _(way_ up) and down. “I should have guessed from your outfit,” he says, and laughs. “Pink and lime green to match the outside, right?” He doesn’t give Gabe time to answer, just rolls on without getting weird about it. “So—do you guys really do the fight club thing here? Patrick told me you did, but I couldn’t believe it.”

Gabe blinks. Patrick is another regular, although he doesn’t come in very often. He’s surprised to learn that Patrick feels strongly enough about the Cobra to recommend it. (Usually, he just shows up, runs quietly on a treadmill, and scowls at anyone he thinks is looking at him. Every now and then, he gets in the ring. Hell of a right hook.)

“Patrick’s my best friend,” Pete explains. “He said I’d like it here.”

“I bet you will,” says Gabe, throwing in a saucy smile for emphasis. This guy makes the smile come too easy. “Yeah, we do the fight club thing.”

It’s not the first time he’s heard that comparison. The informal fights that Gabe permits at the Cobra give it a certain kind of allure for certain kinds of people. (Gabe is that kind of person, so.) “It’s not _Fight Club_ brutal, though, _capisce?”_ he says. “No breaking people’s faces. We make sure people are safe and that everyone understands the limits of their opponent.”

Pete raises his eyebrows and gives Gabe a really interesting look. “You guys are for real. No wonder Patrick told me to come here.”

Despite his better judgment, Gabe feels every line of his body sharpen up as he focuses on Pete. “You came to fight?” New people often do, because “that fight club place” sounds more exciting than “that gym where every artist, musician, and weirdo queer goes.”

“I came to look around.” Pete shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, which is easier said than done. They’re awfully tight, Gabe sees. “And then, yeah, maybe if I like what I’ll see, I’ll fight.”

Gabe grins. “Do you like what you see?”

Pete’s willing to pick up what he’s laying down; he wiggles his eyebrows and says, “Yeah, but I’d like to see more, if you know what I mean.” He strips off his jacket, revealing a black muscle tee.

At first Gabe stupidly thinks he’s just taking off his jacket because he’s hot, but then Pete waves his hands past the equipment, all the way to the roped-off section of mats at the back of the room. “Is that where—?” More hand-waving, a doofy giggle.

Gabe kind of hates himself for the way his heart flips over. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s where we spar. Wanna go back there?”

He leads the way toward the back of the room. On the speakers, Gabe’s usual sleazy dance pop gives way to a slice of raw, distorted guitar. It’s Lindsey’s boyfriend’s band, probably. Sure enough, he can’t mistake the raw demo quality or the way the singer screams. He can practically see Pete’s ears pricking up.

“Whoa. Don’t recognize this song. Who is that?”

“Local group,” Gabe says. “One of my regulars is dating the lead singer.” Pete gives him an amused, surprised look. His eyes crinkle when he does. Partially because it’s a good story and partially because he’d like to see that expression again, Gabe tells him, “I had to ban the band from coming in here, actually. They sound fierce, but Gerard’s a marshmallow, his brother’s a twig, and Frank would catch a superbug and die. They’d all die. Also, they cause trouble.”

Pete full-on laughs. He has an awful laugh, loud and nasal and stupid and joyous.

 _Soy jodido,_ Gabe thinks. Well. He’s only fucked if Pete fights as well as his laugh is terrible. He still has a chance at getting out of this with his dignity intact. He gestures at his makeshift ring. “Here it is. Where the magic happens.”

Pete hangs his jacket on the ropes, pauses, and shoots him a glance. “Can I—?”

“You wanna get in? Sure. Doesn’t mean you’re agreeing to fight.” About half the time, would-be fighters get as far as getting in the ring, looking around, imagining getting hit. Then they back out. Gabe suspects Pete will not back out, but he always likes to make sure no one feels pressured.

Pete crouches to unlace his sneakers, hampered by his tight pants. Trying to do any kind of physical activity in skinny jeans is a terrible idea, Gabe feels, but he elects not to say anything about it. He’s not sure he can make a safe joke out of suggesting that Pete take off his pants.

Now barefoot, Pete wiggles through the ropes and strikes a stupid pose. _“MEET ME IN THE PIT,”_ he bellows, in what Gabe assumes is supposed to be some kind of screamo voice.

He manages to stifle the jolt of hilarity that goes through him, keeps it to a cocked eyebrow. “You are one weird dude.”

Pete takes that well, as expected; he just flexes and yells, _“MEET ME IN THE PIT”_ again. (Gabe can’t help but wonder how on earth Patrick interacts with this guy, how they manage to be best friends. He suspects the right hook is involved.)

He follows Pete in, his bare feet sticking vaguely to the mats. He has a vague detached moment where everything around him becomes very clear: the omnipresent stale-dirty-sweat smell of the Cobra, Pete’s nervous bouncing, the way his pulse has begun to beat particularly hard in his right wrist, the grating howl and choppy rhythm guitar on the stereo.

It’s good. It’s very good. Gabe takes a deep breath and lets it out. “So,” he says. “This is where the magic happens. How does it feel?”

Nervousness shines out of Pete’s face. “Pretty cool,” is what he says, and Gabe is beginning to understand—he’s fronting so _hard._ What’s underneath there? He’s going to find out; he always does when he spars.

“So.” He spreads his hands slow, lets Pete have a second to hang on tenterhooks. “Do you wanna fight? Nothing serious if you don’t want, just a little roughhousing.”

Pete freezes. Gabe can feel the energy in the room shifting. There is nothing in the room for him except this man and whatever’s going on in his head.

“Yeah,” Pete says, a little rough. “Do I fight you? Do I fight someone else?”

Gabe shrugs, rolls his shoulders. “You can fight me.” Curiosity makes him say, “You can go as hard as you want. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Pete’s eyes go wide. “Wow. Damn. Okay.” He shifts his weight, feet crinkling the mat.

In response, Gabe does too, flexing his knees, ready to move. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, feeling it come out lazy and taunting. Excitement crackles along his limbs.

Pete moves like a sprinter off the block. Gabe thinks, _He_ is _fast after all,_ and then his arm arcs up to block and back down to redirect Pete’s blow, even as he sidesteps to the outside. Some bone in his arm impacts some bone in Pete’s. Hurts.

Pete stumbles; he put a hell of a lot into his first punch. His arm’s still extended and so Gabe strikes at the wide-open patch of his side, knuckles slamming his ribs. He stands back and waits on his toes, burning with anticipation, and sure enough as soon as Pete’s absorbed the impact he jets back at Gabe. There’s a moment where Gabe has an image of borrowing some Aikido, making this boy fly across the room, but does he know how to fall—?

Pete closes with him and there’s empty air where Gabe’s reaching for him. _Not falling for the same trick twice,_ he thinks, and Pete headbutts him in the belly. Not afraid to hit hard, this kid, but he doesn’t follow up fast enough and Gabe has experience working through the sucking feeling of being winded.

Where Gabe would have thrown his weight in and toppled the other motherfucker over, Pete hesitates, and since Gabe’s bent double over him _(straighten up, Pete, you can crack me in the jaw with your head and I’m fucked)_ he does essentially the same thing. Slithers back enough to remove Pete’s cranium from his solar plexus, swings his body around to cover Pete’s, and kicks his legs out from under him.

They hit the mat hard, Gabe on top and Pete facedown. Gabe’s not going as careful with Pete as he meant to, and he can’t find it in him to care. Pete turns into a landed fish instantly, thrashing like a mad thing, but Gabe puts a stop to that with his weight. He snares one tattooed arm and cranks it carefully behind Pete’s back until Pete says, “Ow!” and goes still.

He doesn’t tap out. Gabe eases up the pin anyway. Maybe Pete doesn’t know that he’s supposed to tap out.

“Not bad, for a first try,” he says. Pete makes a vague noise into the mat. “You okay there?” Gabe can feel a space at the end of his own sentence, waiting for him to give Pete an endearment.

He lets Pete turn his head and look up at him. “Yeah,” Pete says. There’s a lag there. He’s still catching up with having been tossed around. “I’m fine.”

“You hit hard,” Gabe tells him, releasing his arm entirely and swinging his leg back over Pete’s hips so that he’s not straddling him anymore. “That’s good. Not a lot of people can make themselves do it on their first time.” He folds himself into a cross-legged position.

Pete laughs hoarsely as he pushes up onto hands and knees. “That,” he says, “was _not_ my first time. I get in fights.”

Gabe receives this information with no surprise. He is starting to assemble a Pete-interior in his head, to maybe understand why Patrick told Pete to come here.

“Pete,” he says, “you don’t follow through. You’re fast enough to do it. You could have taken me down if you hadn’t choked.”

Pete’s bleach-blonde head bows, accepting the criticism. He’s too ready to do it, and it twists something up inside Gabe.

He aims for what he thinks might be the weak spot. “Why are you afraid of winning?” he says, and feels a tight little twist of satisfaction as he says it, knowing it’ll strike home. His closest friends make fun of him for this—his little headgames on the mat, psychoanalysis through punching. In his experience, usually physical weaknesses are not the obstacle.

Pete’s head pops up. He looks more like he’s been hit than he did when Gabe hit him.

Gabe presses it. “What do you think you’ll lose if you win?” His skin is alive with the sense memory of Pete vibrant and struggling underneath him. Oh, he’ll take everything he can get out of this lost boy—at least, he amends, if he hasn’t scared him off already.

Pete meets his gaze a moment longer, and then starts pushing up to his feet. Gabe pops up easily, following Pete, and then feels stupid. It’s Pete’s move now, and here he is, six feet plus of looming, awkward need. He accidentally bared himself, too. It happens sometimes. The intimacy of sparring is dynamic.

Just as Gabe decides all is lost, Pete says, “Ask me later, what the fuck kind of question is that for someone you just met?” He sounds annoyed, normal, _friendly._

Gabe imagines his relief showing in his body like he was a cartoon, all sinking curves.

Pete slips back through the ropes and picks up his jacket. As he shoves his bare feet back into his shoes, not bothering to lace them, he favors Gabe with another goofy smile. “You are one weird dude, Gabe Saporta.”

Gabe smacks him on the shoulder and beams back. “Freaks gotta stick together. You coming back?”

Pete bounces, almost popping out of his untied shoes. “Hell yeah. I need a rematch. A rematch where I’m not hobbled by my fucking jeans!” He shuffles toward the exit, then jabs a finger back at Gabe. “We’re friends now. Don’t try to get away.”

The grin that appears on Gabe’s face feels like it could last for hours, and it turns out that it does.

**Author's Note:**

> I have thoughts about other characters in this AU and about the way Pete's relationship with Gabe develops. This could just as easily have grown into something longer, but alas, time constraints.


End file.
